The Shape of Her Name
Copyright© 2025 by BeneathHerBraid
Chapter 6: The Date
The next morning, a soft hum of filtered through the Nudge Engine loft - light pouring in through the high windows, casting tangled shadows across Harper’s desk. She sat with her chin in her hand, glasses slipping down her nose, eyes unfocused on a spreadsheet she hadn’t touched in twenty minutes. Her fingers tapped absently at the keyboard - not typing, just fidgeting. There was a subtle glow to her. Not overt. Just ... warm. Like someone who hadn’t slept much, but for once, didn’t seem to mind.
And then -
Jules entered like a caffeine-fueled truth bomb, sliding into the room with purpose and a half-drunk iced espresso in one hand.
“So,” she began without preamble, “how did it go? And also - sidebar - you are now, officially, so into girls!”
Harper flinched. “What?”
Jules leaned against her desk, sipping with calculated drama. “You called her a goddess in your sleep. On Slack.”
Harper blinked. “I - what?”
Jules had her phone out, “Timestamp: 1:42 a.m. You called her a goddess. With a cat gif.”
Harper covered her face with both hands, glasses skewing even more. “Okay, first of all, that’s not proof of anything. Second, that’s a metaphor.”
“A gay metaphor.”
Harper groaned. “You’re the one who said she was a goddess, first.”
“Sure, but I wasn’t whispering it into the company Slack like a love confession to the void.”
Harper dropped her hands and leaned back in her chair, eyes wide, helpless. “I don’t know if I’m into girls, okay? I don’t. I’m just -” She paused, then shrugged in quiet defeat. “I just know I’m into her. Mira.” The name landed like a pebble in water. Something gentle but rippling.
Jules’ face softened for exactly two seconds - then sharpened again. “Okay, but let’s rewind to the part where you called her from the bath. Like a scene from a Euro-indie film.”
Harper groaned. “It wasn’t like that.”
“But, you were naked. You were talking, and she knew you were naked.”
“Well, yes. Thats how you bathe. And, I might’ve confirmed it for her.”
Jules nearly dropped her espresso. “Oh my God!”
Harper flushed to the tips of her ears. “I wasn’t thinking. I panicked. I called - and she answered, then she was ... Mira.”
Jules tilted her head, observing Harper the way one might study a delicate scientific anomaly. “You’ve got it bad.”
Harper nodded, defeated. “I really do.”
“You’ve got it bath-call bad.”
She buried her face in her hands again. “Stop.”
Jules smirked, taking a long, slow sip. “I will. After one more question: When are you going out with her?”
Harper didn’t answer.
Jules just grinned wider.
The Calridge office building was full of whispers and decisive heels on marble. No one loiters there. Receptionists don’t smile unless you’re a client. The café downstairs serves espresso with your name etched into the foam - if they know you belong.
Mira sat at her desk reviewing a proposal with practiced precision. Her posture, as always, was impeccable: shoulders relaxed but regal, spine long, fingers deft as they turned each page. The Calridge logo gleamed in the corner of the folder, sharp against the white.
But her eyes weren’t quite on the words. Her red pen hovered just above the margin of a paragraph she hadn’t read. Her lips - rarely without their deliberate poise - were curved in the faintest ghost of a smile. Not smirking. Not indulgent. Something quieter. Something warmer. She traced the edge of the paper with her nail. Thought of a voice - bright, breathless, amused. “I mean, I am naked, but only by routine.” Mira exhaled softly, like the memory was made of silk.
The door opened with a polite knock that didn’t wait for permission. Camille stepped in - composed in slate grey, hair pinned, eyes like twin scalpels - carrying a slim portfolio of updates.
“Internal revisions from Munich. And a new draft from the Southbridge team. It’s already marked for your tone adjustments.”
Mira nodded, but didn’t look up.
Camille watched her for a second. Then another. Her voice shifted - cooler. Sharper. In French, “Are you thinking about Nudge Engine ... or its founder?”
Mira’s pen stilled. She let the silence settle just long enough. “Both,” she said, without looking up.
Camille tilted her head, lips parting like she might press further - but she didn’t. She only moved forward, laying the folder gently on the edge of the desk.
“Fais attention.” she said, quietly. “Le chevauchement professionnel comporte des risques.” Be careful, professional overlap carries risks.
Mira finally looked up - her green eyes clear, unbothered, but undeniably ... softened. “Ana aʿlam,” I know, she said. “I’ll be careful.”
Camille didn’t answer right away. She simply turned to leave, steps quiet against the polished floor. Just as she reached the door: “You never are,” she said over her shoulder, “when it matters.”
Mira didn’t flinch. “I heard that.”
Camille closed the door behind her without a sound. Mira looked back to the untouched proposal. Then down at her phone.
Harper was in the kitchen nook of Nudge Engine’s loft, staring into a chipped ceramic mug of coffee that said “I brake for existential dread.” She wore a soft sweater with a stretched neckline. She looked halfway between focused and fried.
Her phone rang. She didn’t even look - she just answered on instinct. “Hello?”
A deep, feminine voice that made her melt: “Are you free tonight?”
Harper blinked. A breath. “Yes.” Beat. “I mean - probably. I mean - yes. Absolutely. Very free.”
She winced. Closed her eyes. Bit her lip. Somewhere inside her brain, neurons collapsed into each other and spontaneously combusted. On the other end of the line, Mira’s laugh drifted across the wire - smooth, low, like the first sip of good wine.
“Good,” she said. “I’ll text you the details now. I’ll see you tonight.”
Harper: “Okay. Great. I’ll ... probably change outfits six times and forget how to breathe, but - yeah. I’ll be ready.”
There was another soft laugh - then the call ended with a chime that sounded suspiciously like doom. Harper stood there, phone in hand, melting into the kitchen counter. Behind her, Jules walked in with a junior developer holding a protein bar. She clocked the expression instantly.
“Was that the date I told you was coming?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Or did she just buy you as a pet?”
Harper, dazed: “I think both?” A pause. “I’d be fine with both.”
The restaurant was a hidden fragment of some other time - tucked into a quiet corner of the West Village, between ivy-strewn brownstones on a street barely lit by amber sconces and the glow of flowering window boxes. Once a greenhouse, maybe, or a conservatory for someone who believed in beauty more than profit. Now, it breathed slow and warm, filled with lantern light and the scent of jasmine, basil, and something gently sweet - drifting through the vines that curl along the glass ceiling.
At the far end, tucked in a corner framed by a low wall of greenery, Mira sat alone at a candlelit table. She is still, composed - her dark braid pinned in a low twist, the silk of her dress pooling gently over crossed legs. There are subtle gold details at her collar and ears, catching the light when she tilts her head. Her posture is relaxed but elegant, one hand curved around a half-full wine glass, the other resting lightly near the menu she had no intention of reading again.
She was waiting - and hoping: She’d done complicated negotiations, and she’d stood before billionaires and business dictators with a steadier pulse. But tonight, she is unsettled in a way that has nothing to do with power, and everything to do with the girl who might just change everything.
And then - footsteps. A soft scuffle of heels on tile. A burst of air through the open doorway.
Mira lifts her gaze just as Harper appears - half-shouldered by the maître d’, slightly out of breath, eyes scanning the room. The dress she wore is simple, tasteful - a soft green that clings in places it’s meant to and suggests in places it’s not. Her curls have been coaxed into a semi-submission, though one tendril has already rebelled near her cheek. She looks radiant. Slightly flushed. And as her eyes find Mira’s, something inside her visibly stutters.
Oh no, Harper thinks, stopping dead. Oh no, she’s unreal.
She hadn’t expected this - not really. Not the kind of stunned that leaves her suddenly unsure of her own limbs. Not the warmth in her stomach. Not the heat she can feel rising in her cheeks just from the way Mira is looking at her.
Mira rises. Slowly. Not out of etiquette. Out of instinct. Her smile is quiet but genuine, almost amused by the way Harper freezes in place - caught in some unspoken awareness that she has never, not once, shown up to a date that felt like this. Mira liked that.
Harper breathes out: “You’re - wow...” She doesn’t finish.
Mira, gently: “You came.”
Harper swallows, then nods, stepping forward. Recognising another greeting repeated. “I didn’t even hesitate.” Why did I say that? Harper thought to herself. And, why did it sound like I’m already too far in?
Their table feels both enclosed and exposed - private in its position, but strung with the electricity of everything unsaid between them. The jazz is low, just barely audible beneath the hush of warm conversation and clinking glassware. Shadows play across Mira’s cheekbones as she settles again into her chair, every movement unhurried, deliberate. Her eyes never leave Harper.
The waitress brings water. Harper immediately knocks hers slightly off-center. Mira says nothing. Just smiles. The lighting turned everything golden. Harper’s curls caught it like they were made for it. So did the slope of her collarbone, visible beneath the soft dress she wore - and Mira can’t stop imagining sliding it off her shoulders.
They talk. At first, it’s safe. Work-adjacent. A few teasing mentions of the conference.
But then - Mira sets her glass down. “I’m glad you called last night. That you didn’t wait.”
Harper looks down at her hands, then back up - blue eyes unsure and open. “Waiting ... who would do that, right?” An awkward half giggle. “No - I just ... knew I wanted to hear your voice.”
Mira’s mouth softens. Not into a smile. Into something slower. More intimate. Later, over wine and shared olives, Harper recounts a recent debugging nightmare.
“I basically bribed the code into working. I gave it compliments. I said things like, ‘Wow, what a strong and valid function you are.’”
Mira tilts her head, intrigued. “You negotiate with your software?”
Harper grins, slightly embarrassed. “Only when I care about it.”
Mira holds her gaze across the table. “Then I hope your software knows how lucky it is.”
Their fingertips brush once - Mira reaching to pass the wine, Harper reaching to steady it. It would’ve been nothing, except neither of them pulls away.
Mira keeps noticing little things that threaten to distract her from the conversation - like how Harper’s throat moves when she laughs. Or, how she is shifting in her seat every few moments - crossing and uncrossing her legs. It doesn’t bother Mira, it just means that Harper’s thighs are continually coming to mind.
And, Harper could feel it too. Mira’s focus on her. God, could she feel it. Her panties were already damp and had been since the moment Mira stood to greet her - all tailored elegance and warm cheek kiss, her perfume laced with cardamom and heat. The slide of Mira’s voice across the wine list hadn’t helped.
Now, under the tablecloth, Harper’s thighs pressed together again. Trying to keep her own rhythm contained. It didn’t work. Nothing was working. And Mira was watching her. No - devouring her. Calmly. Intently. As if she was already imagining Harper’s scent on her fingers.
“I’m sorry,” Harper said, blinking. “I just spaced for a second - what did you say?”
Mira smiled faintly. Tipped her wine glass to her lips and took a slow sip before replying.
“I didn’t say anything.”
Oh. Heat flashed across Harper’s chest. She looked down. Then back up. Mira’s gaze didn’t waver.
“Are you always like this?” Harper asks, voice lower now. “So ... elegant? It’s very intimidating.”
Mira lets out a soft exhale. “I assure you, I am not.”
Harper cocks her head. “Liar.”
Mira only smiles - the kind that answers nothing and invites everything.
The courses come slowly. The wine settles into warmth in their chests.
Outside the glass, the city glows. Inside the lantern-lit garden, two women lean slightly toward each other - caught somewhere between conversation and something far deeper. Around them, the restaurant hums with quiet laughter, the occasional clink of cutlery, the low thread of warm music winding lazily through the lantern-lit air.
Harper leans forward slightly, she takes a breath, then speaks - like a secret that’s been curled in her mouth for weeks. “I’ve been trying to figure out your accent since the gallery.”
Mira lifts a brow, amused. Her smile comes easily this time - subtle but real. “Have you?” she asks, clearly entertained.
Harper grins, but there’s something behind it. Something more vulnerable. “It’s been haunting me,” she admits. “Like ... it just shows up in my head sometimes and makes everything else sound flat. It’s not just French, though. There’s something softer underneath. Warmer...”
Harper blinks once. “I know you’re French. Or at least partly. And I thought maybe something else, too? Especially when you said goodnight last night in another language.”
There’s a pause - not hesitation, exactly. Just weight. Like Mira is choosing what not to say before she chooses what to share. “Aḥlām Saʿīda,” Mira said again quietly. “It means, ‘sweet dreams.’”
“My mother was Egyptian,” she continues. “My father was French. I grew up between Cairo and Lyon, later Paris.”
Harper nods slowly, her gaze never leaving Mira’s. “Well,” she says, softer now. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
Harper exhales through her nose. “The accent. The presence. The ... impossible elegance.”
Mira’s smile sharpens - not with mockery, but with something else. Curiosity, maybe. Amusement touched with something gentler. “You are very strange,” she says, not unkindly.
“I get that a lot.”
“It’s not a flaw.”
Harper lifts her wine glass like a toast. “Good, because it’s definitely not going away. I’ve tried everything.”
Mira’s eyes glint with something unreadable. She lifts her own glass - a soft clink between them. Eventually, Mira sets her glass down. “Do you ever get away from work?”
Harper straightens slightly, grateful for the change in direction but still glowing under it.
“Sometimes,” she says. “I drive, mostly. Long ones. I’ll head south with no plan, pick a highway and just ... go. Find some sleepy town with a bakery and a lake and pretend it’s enough. Stay in a weird little inn with bad wallpaper. Try their local specialty, no matter how sketchy. I like the water - lakes, oceans, rivers, whatever. Anything that reflects light.”
Mira watches her, eyes soft. “You’re a wanderer.”
Harper shrugs. “Maybe. But a deliberate one.”
Mira’s lips curve. “I like that.”
Harper, emboldened by the warmth in Mira’s gaze: “What about you? Do you have hobbies? Or are you too busy being devastatingly elegant all the time?”
“Contrary to popular belief,” Mira replies, dry but playful, “I do have a life outside of Calridge.”
“Please say it’s underground fencing or illegal street racing.”
“Would it ruin it if I said classical piano?”
Harper pauses. Then smiles - wide and genuine. “That actually ... doesn’t surprise me.”
“No?”
“You have ‘grand piano in a minimalist apartment’ energy.”
“I do have both of those,” Mira murmurs, amused. “Though I rarely play when anyone can hear.”
Harper tilts her head. “Shame. I bet it sounds like your accent.”
Mira’s gaze sharpens again - “How’s that?”
Harper doesn’t look away. “Your music would probably stay with me.”
There’s a quiet between them now - not awkward, but charged. As though the room has narrowed, drawn itself around just them.
Harper leaned back in her chair, swirling the last of her wine, watching Mira with a look that hovered between awe and disbelief. Her curls had started to fray slightly from the humidity - she could feel them starting to revolt - but Mira was still perfect, damn her. Regal and molten in the same breath.
“I know somewhere,” Harper said, tone a little conspiratorial. “A place.”
Mira tilted her head, amused. “A place?”
“A gelato place,” Harper said, eyes lighting up. “It’s nearby. Small. A little ridiculous. I think you’d love it.”
“Do you now?”
“I do. It has lavender honey and cardamom and probably illegal amounts of whipped cream. Also, you’ve made me nervous all night and I need sugar.”
Mira’s laugh was quiet but undeniable. She reached for her clutch. “Then I believe it’s my responsibility to ensure you recover,” she said, rising with elegant ease. “Let’s go.”
Mira’s tone made it clear that the matter of the check wasn’t up for debate. Harper gave in with a halfhearted pout and followed her out into the night. Mira’s tailored coat fell neatly over her mid-thigh dress; beside her, Harper shrugged into her cropped leather jacket - warm, worn, and unmistakably hers - and they began to walk.